Page 9 of Monk

Her nails raked down my back hard enough to draw blood, digging in with a desperate urgency that should have sent shivers through me.

I didn’t feel it.

Nothing registered. Not the sting, not the heat, not even the faint wetness trickling down my spine.

Ruby was underneath me, legs wrapped tight around my waist, ankles locked behind my ass, making those high-pitched sounds that were supposed to be sexy but just grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Her bleached blonde hair was spread across my pillow in a tangled mess, her heavy makeup smeared across her face in dark streaks—mascara running, lipstick smudged across her chin. Her tits bounced with every brutal thrust I delivered, nipples hard and pink, the flesh jiggling obscenely as I pounded into her.

I had her pinned beneath me, my weight crushing her into the mattress, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise while the other braced against the headboard for leverage. My cock drove into her pussy with mechanical precision—deep, hard strokes that made her whole body jolt with the impact. I could feel every inch of her wrapped around me, hot and slick and tight, her inner walls clenching and fluttering as I hit bottom with each thrust.

I fucked her harder.

Faster. More brutal.

Pulled almost all the way out until just the head of my cock was still inside her, then slammed back in to the hilt in one savage motion. The wet sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room—obscene, rhythmic, mechanical. Her pussy made lewd squelching noises as I drove into her again and again, her arousal coating my shaft, dripping down onto the sheets beneath us.

Not because I wanted to. Not because she felt good. Not because her body did anything for me.

Because I needed to feelsomething.

Anything.

Some spark of sensation. Some hint of pleasure or pain or connection. Some proof I was still alive inside, still human, still capable of experiencing the world instead of just moving through it like a ghost.

“Oh God, Monk—yes—right there—fuck?—”

I gripped both her hips now, fingers digging into soft flesh, and drove into her with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall. The sound echoed through my room at the clubhouse—rhythmic, mechanical, empty. A metronome counting down the minutes until I could be alone again. I changed the angle, lifting her hips higher, and felt my cock slide even deeper. She cried out, her back arching off the bed, her hands scrabbling at my shoulders.

She wasn’t as tight as I liked, but she was wet and eager. Her pussy gripped my cock like a vise, hot and slick and pulsing around me. Everything a man was supposed to want.

And I felt nothing.

Not a damn thing except the dull throb of exertion and the familiar hollowness that had taken up permanent residence in my chest.

I closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in it. In the heat of her body, the slick slide of my cock pumping in and out of her cunt, the way her inner walls clenched around me when I hit that spot deep inside her that made her scream my name like a prayer. I focused on the physical sensations—her nails raking down my back, her breath hot and ragged against my neck, the desperate little sounds she made as she got closer to the edge. The way her thighs trembled against my sides. The way her pussy got wetter, hotter, tighter with every thrust.

But it was just friction.

Just bodies colliding in the dark. Just the mechanical slide of flesh into flesh, the biological response of arousal and penetration.

Just another way to kill time and forget, even if only for a few minutes, that I was empty inside. That I’d been empty for so long I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be whole.

“Fuck—Monk—I’m gonna?—”

I shifted position, pulling out of her completely. She whimpered at the loss, but I flipped her over onto her stomach before she could protest, yanking her hips up so her ass was in the air, face pressed into the pillow. I lined my cock up with her entrance and drove back in with one brutal thrust, burying myself to the hilt. From this angle I could go even deeper, could feel her cervix kissing the head of my cock with every stroke.

She came with a cry that was too loud, too performative, too rehearsed, her whole body shaking beneath me in what I recognized as an exaggerated display. I felt her pussy clamp down around my cock, rhythmic pulses that squeezed and released, felt her nails dig deeper into the sheets, heard her gasping my name like I was some kind of god, some savior she’d been waiting for her entire life. Her arousal gushed around my shaft, making everything wetter, slicker.

I kept going, unmoved by her theatrics.

Chasing my own release with the same grim determination I brought to everything else in my life. Every deal. Every negotiation. Every meaningless encounter. My rhythm didn’t change. Didn’t speed up or slow down. Just the same relentless pace, driving into her oversensitive pussy like I could fuck my way through the emptiness, like I could find something resembling feeling if I just pushed hard enough. She was whimpering now, overstimulated, her body jerking with each thrust, but I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Just kept pounding into her with mechanical precision.

It took another five minutes before I finally came, and even that felt like work.

No buildup. No explosion of pleasure. No moment of transcendence or connection.

Just a release. Physical. Mechanical. A biological function completed. I felt my cock pulse inside her, felt the warmth of my cum filling her, but there was no satisfaction in it. No relief. Just the same hollow emptiness I’d felt before, maybe worse now.

I pulled out immediately, rolling off her and onto my back, my chest heaving as I stared at the ceiling. The same ceiling I’d stared at a hundred times before with a hundred different women. Sweat cooled on my skin, leaving me cold. My heart rate slowed, returning to its normal, steady beat.